


The Brittana Fanslide Extravanganza

by lazarus_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 17,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My collection of prompt fills for <a href="http://xandylytex.tumblr.com/post/79701145144/the-brittana-fanslide-extravaganza-yes-thats-a">The Brittana Fanslide Extravaganza</a>. Originally posted on tumblr between March 18th and May 3rd 2014. Though presented here as a multi-chapter work for ease of reading, they are not connected. Thank you, as ever, to my dearest beta <a href="http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com">itcameuponamidnightqueer</a> for helping with the huge edit/clean-up process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set circa S5. Follows canon. A fill for an idea prompted to me by [itcameuponamidnightqueer](http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com) forever ago, who wanted some much-needed perspective on Brittany following her admittance to MIT and the status of her relationship with Santana. I hope you like it! Inspired by the Janelle Monáe song of the same name.

***

_To win you'll have to lose all the things you know_

***

The Spotlight Diner is smaller than she imagined it when Santana described it to her, but it’s warm, bright, the right kind of busy, and miles from MIT. The moment she steps inside, she knows that she’s made the right decision to visit. Santana’s never really liked surprises – even the ones that come with presents and cake – but she’s willing to take the risk.

She finds her way to a corner booth with a good view and settles in, shrugging off her coat. For now, she’s content to watch and wait; busying herself with an unfinished proof until someone notices her. She’s ahead in class, but her heart’s not in it; troubled by things that aren’t so easy to answer. Things like love and feelings, and why she still feels so connected to Santana when they’re not together anymore.

The moment she spots Santana emerging from the kitchen, balancing three plates in one hand and holding a jug of coffee in the other, her heart is up in her throat. She’s tempted to call out, but she doesn’t want Santana to get in trouble. Instead, she turns her attention back to her proof, writing until a shadow falls across her page.

“Hi, I’m Santana, and I’ll be your singing waitress this afternoon. What can I get you?”

She’s distracted, still looking down at her notepad, pen poised and ready to write.

“What’s good here?” Brittany asks, barely able to keep from smiling as she looks up at her.

Santana’s head snaps up. The second their eyes meet, her face is lit by the brightest smile Brittany’s ever seen. It’s all the proof she needs to know Santana is still hers.


	2. White Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU spin on Brittany and Santana's college years as seen through the eyes of singer-songwriter Santana. An anonymous prompt inspired by the Vanessa Carlton song of the same name.

***

_Maybe you were all faster than me_   
_We gave each other up so easily_   
_These silly little wounds will never mend_   
_I feel so far from where I've been_

***

It’s getting to the point in her set where Santana likes to revisit her early songs. She mixes up the running order or plays with arrangements to keep things interesting, but she’s never touched this from the day she finished writing it when she was barely eighteen, to tonight’s show, a decade later. She knows it inside out and could pretty much play it with her eyes closed.

“If you’ve been here from the beginning, this is a song you’ll probably know. It means a lot to me, and reminds me of a really important time in my life. It’s called White Houses.”

Some cheers go up, followed by camera flashes and she smiles, exhaling a long slow breath to centre herself. It’s just her, the piano, and two hundred or so other people filming it for posterity on their iPhones.

As soon as she places her fingers on the keys and starts to sing, a hush descends. Like always, she loses herself completely in the song. When her eyes close, she’s not in LA anymore, she’s in New York, in a draughty loft with Brittany, Quinn, Noah and Mike. Music and dance was everything to them. They became everything to each other, clinging on as they struggled to make it.

Brittany. It’s always Brittany who gets her through the song when it’s tough. She can see her so clearly; that bright, brilliant, beautiful girl, twirling across the living room with effortless grace while she played. It’s her loss that cuts the deepest. God, she loved her. They were absolutely crazy about each other. Everyone was in love with her. They were so damn young and naïve. Perfect couldn’t last. It all unravelled. Spectacularly.

When the song ends and she opens her eyes, taken aback by the applause, she swears she sees Brittany amongst the crowd, beaming with pride. She blinks, and it’s another blonde instead, and she’s just as disappointed as the first time it happened.

One day, Brittany will be there, and they’ll be together again. One day, the five of them will find their way back to each other, and she’ll have a different song to sing.


	3. All I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set circa S5 on the morning of Finn's funeral. If that’s something you’d rather not read, than feel free to skip this one. An anonymous prompt inspired by the Kodaline song of the same name.

***

_All I want is,_   
_And all I need is_   
_To find somebody._   
_I'll find somebody like you_

***

“Come in sweetheart,” Mrs Pierce says, ushering her gently inside the house. “She’s still upstairs. She says she won’t go, but I think she’ll regret it if she doesn’t.”

This isn’t the first funeral she or Brittany have ever been to, but it’s the first one she’ll attend where she’s angry about the loss it’s commemorating rather than sad. She’s not alone in that. Finn is gone. Finn is gone and none of them know how to feel about it. Right now, Santana just feels kind of numb.

“I’ll talk to her,” Santana replies quietly, heading for the stairs.

It feels different to be here now, like she’s intruding, even though Brittany’s mom welcomed her in with the same warmth she always has. She doesn’t race up the stairs like she used to, avoiding the treads that squeak. Instead, she’s careful and quiet, dreading what she might find. Since she got in from New York, all she’s done is sleep; felled by jetlag. They’ve spoken on the phone, but it’s not the same. They’re not the same anymore.

When she rounds the landing, she pauses to look at herself in the reflection of a family photograph that hangs on the wall. She’s wearing a dress borrowed from her mother, because nothing she tried on felt right. That says it all. Suddenly, she’s on the verge of tears. That’s happening a lot lately at really weird times and she can’t figure out why. It’s not like there haven’t been times in her life where she’s loathed Finn Hudson with every fibre of her being; but then she remembers the choir room, and that glee club is family, and it hurts her more than she ever imagined possible.

Brittany’s taken it hard, like Santana feared she would.

She puffs out a breath, steeling herself before she comes to a stop right outside Brittany’s bedroom door.

“Britt?” she calls gently knocking on the door before she peeps around it.

The curtains are still drawn and Brittany is sitting on the end of her bed with a balled up tissue in her hands. When she looks up at her, sadly, eyes red and puffy from crying. Santana’s heart sinks.

Brittany looks wrong wearing black too.

“You’re here,” she declares, half smiling, half on the brink of tears. “I don’t think I can go. It’s going to be sad and horrible. I don’t want to remember Finn like that.”

“Oh Britt-Britt,” Santana says, feeling herself well up. “Neither do I.”

She rushes over to the bed, sitting next to Brittany and pulling her into a hug. Brittany lets out a strangled sob, clawing at her desperately. “It’s never going to be the same.”

Santana looks up at the ceiling, feeling her chest seize. She has to be the strong one. Brittany’s done this hundreds of times for her.

“We’ll get through this, B. I promise you,” she says into Brittany’s hair, pressing a kiss there before she realises. Brittany clings to her even tighter. She closes her eyes, forcing herself to keep talking, because there are more important things right now. “We’re gonna go get Quinn, and then we’re gonna do this. OK? We’ll all have each other. We’re family. Remember?”

Brittany pulls away, sniffing back tears. “I can’t.”

“You can B. You’re so strong,” she assures her, reaching out to brush away Brittany’s tears with her thumbs.

“I’m not,” Brittany replies, brokenly. “Not without you.”

“I’m here now,” she says, barely able to speak, “I’m here now,” she repeats, looking Brittany right in the eyes.

Brittany gasps, a hand quickly covering her mouth, and the mixture of relief and sadness she hears is overwhelming. It doesn’t matter about boundaries and what they’re supposed to be to each other. Brittany needs her. Really needs her, and she won’t be running away this time. Her hand inches closer to Brittany’s and she’s tempted to take hold of it or kiss her or do _something_ , anything, to comfort her and take her pain away just a little. She leans forward, gaze darting between Brittany’s eyes and her mouth and back again, and she knows it’s wrong to be contemplating anything like this, especially now, but she can’t help it.

Then, there’s a gentle rap on the door, and it makes them both jump, shifting away from each other as if they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t. When they look toward the sound, Mr Pierce is in doorway, fixing his tie.

Santana’s never seen him in a suit before.

“Thought you girls might like me to drive you,” he says, simple and soft.

“Ready?” she asks, glancing over at Brittany and she nods.

They’re as ready as they’ll ever be. They stand at roughly the same time, smoothing their dresses and checking their reflection in the mirror as they pass, fixing their hair and make-up before following Brittany’s dad downstairs. He turns to mouth a ‘thank you’ and Santana shrugs, deflecting the praise, because she didn’t really do anything at all. He smiles at her, shaking his head, pulling Brittany into a hug and whispering something Santana can’t hear before opening the front door and going to unlock his car.

As she and Brittany stand together on the Pierces’ front steps, they eye each other nervously, and she’s not sure if she should bring up what just happened. She stays silent, staring down at her shoes instead. Wordlessly, Brittany takes her hand, interlacing their fingers, and Santana glances down their joined hands, trying not to smile when Brittany leads her toward the car, pinkies locked together. It says everything they can’t. It’s a promise, a hope and a comfort, just like it’s always been, and it’ll give them the strength they need to help each other through.


	4. Every You Every Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and I are moth to flame. Let's just say this plays to my strengths. Set circa S2, prompted by [5150allthebestpeopleare](http://5150allthebestpeopleare.tumblr.com): "I can't." Inspired by the Placebo song of the same name.

***

_In the shape of things to come.  
Too much poison come undone._

***

_I can’t._

Who says words can never hurt you?

She’s never hated herself more than she does right now. Pacing around her bedroom, she grows more anxious by the second, glancing at her phone every time she passes where it lies on her bed. She threw it there ten long minutes ago. 

Brittany has to have seen the message by now, but there’s nothing. 

It’s terrifying.

The worst thing is, she’s dressed and ready to go over, do the Fondue for Two thing, and put it all out there. Half the contents of her wardrobe is spread all over the bed and the floor; it looks like a MAC counter exploded on her dresser; and the lingering scent of her perfume hangs in the air. She looks amazing, and Brittany can’t even see her. 

For once, she was just going to let her heart rule her head and fuck the consequences. 

They’d go to prom together, and it’d be perfect. They’d get corsages, ride in the same limo and their moms would take a million pictures and try not to cry. It’d be everything she’s ever imagined. It’d be real and honest because she’d be going with someone she loves beyond words instead of someone she’s pretending to love so people stop whispering behind her back.

All this secrecy and sneaking around is starting to take its toll. She’s tired of it. She’s tired of fighting with herself every day. She’s tired of Cheerios, and Glee, and school and this _fucking_ piece of shit town. Mostly, she’s just tired of seeing Brittany look so disappointed and hurt. She’s tired of being the reason why that happens. 

When everyone else knows, there are all these expectations and she can’t see how she can be on Cheerios and love Brittany too, not once they know what her weakness is and what her fear looks like. It’ll just be another weapon; another knife in her back that can twist deeper than all the others. She doesn’t want to keep Brittany a secret, not anymore, but she just can’t do it. She can’t love like Brittany does; honest and open and fathoms deep. It’s too much and it leaves her vulnerable. She’s seen what happens to Kurt at school. If she’s out like him, she might as well paint a giant target on her back. 

She wants to keep it safe and special, just between the two of them so no one can ruin it. 

The only person ruining this is herself.

When her phone buzzes, she starts, looking toward it, seeing light haloing around the duvet. She rushes over it, flipping it over to look at the screen:

_It’s OK. I understand._

Another one quickly follows, and it’s the worst thing she’s ever seen.

_I love you._

She doesn’t deserve her. She never has. She’s a selfish, cruel bitch and Brittany’s kind and good and sweet. 

Why does she even love her at all? Why does she stay?

She reads the message over and over, phone shaking in her hands, watching the letters blur as she starts to cry. Angry and frustrated, she throws her phone again. This time, there’s no soft landing and it smashes against the wall. 

One day she’ll push Brittany too far and too hard, and she’ll never come back. 

She could lose her forever.

Suddenly, she can’t breathe. Her heart is racing and her chest feels tight, and all she can take are these tiny useless breaths and it’s making her dizzy. She lurches forward, scrambling reach the volume button on her iPod in its dock, turning up the volume until she can’t hear herself think; the noise in her head drowned out by a wall of drums and guitars. Sinking to her knees, she reaches blindly for a cushion off her bed and screams into it, disguising the sound. 

She can’t take anymore. 

Then, she’s sobbing uncontrollably, face still buried in the cushion, not knowing if she’ll ever be able to stop.


	5. #1 Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU, but vaguely follows canon until at least 2x19. Prompted by [ididntmeanyou](http://ididntmeanyou.tumblr.com). “I'm a bitch because I have all these feelings." Bonus headcanon moment / guest appearance from [The Mack](http://glee.wikia.com/wiki/The_Mack). Inspired by the Garbage song of the same name.

***

_I will burn for you_  
Feel pain for you  
I will twist the knife and bleed my aching heart  
And tear it apart 

***

Well, she’s done it now. This has to go down as one of the worst days, if not _the_ worst day of her life, and that’s saying something. She’s just spent the last twenty minutes in the Nurses’ Office; her mom will probably tear her a new one when she gets home, and then her dad will do the same, loudly, down phone once that’s done. 

She’s landed herself in front of Figgins and she can’t explain why. Mostly, it’s because no one else but Brittany will understand, but it’s also because she can’t bring herself to say it out loud.

The gang’s all here: Coach Sylvester, glowering at her as she stands guard by the door; Miss Pillsbury to her left, giving her all these kind, supportive looks; Mr Schue to her right, hands clasped in front of him looking fifty shades of disappointed. The only honest face in this room is Miss Holliday, leaning on the windowsill and eyeing her suspiciously. If Santana didn’t know any better, she could swear Miss Holliday saw the whole thing, even though she only swooped in to break the fight before Coach Sylvester did and nearly got elbowed in the face for her trouble. 

Once she starts with the speech she rattled off to Brittany in the hallway by the lockers – “I'm a bitch because I have all these feelings” – all of it will come rushing out of her, and she doesn’t want them to know. She doesn’t want them to know that she loves Brittany so much that it hurts or that Brittany turned her down and dropkicked her heart into the next state. Fucking Artie Abrams. How can she compete with that? She can’t plot, scheme or and wage war to get Brittany back like she would if it was Quinn or Rachel. It wouldn’t exactly be a fair fight would it? She’s not _that_ heartless.

“What do you have to say for yourself Santana?” 

Figgins is trying for stern and threatening, but it’s kind of ridiculous instead. and she barely hides her snort of laughter.

She shrugs and says silent. Nothing she has to say will make this any better. In fact, if she were to say what’s on her mind, then it’d probably do more harm than good.

‘I knocked Allison Mackenzie into the middle of next week because she talked shit to my face instead of behind my back’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, so she’s not going to bother. It won’t go over well. 

“I assure you, Miss Lopez, this is no laughing matter. This will go on your permanent record.”

“Mr Figgins is that really necessary?” Mr Schue pipes up, ever loyal. 

“Quite frankly William, yes.”

He sighs, and Miss Pillsbury looks worried enough for them all. 

It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. Whatever Figgins says, it can’t hurt her much as what Brittany did yesterday or what poisonous little bitch Allison said to her in gym this afternoon. The way this is going, she’ll get kicked out of Glee. Now quitting Cheerios doesn’t seem such a smart move. Coach Sylvester might make her life a misery, but Cheerios makes her immune to almost anything Figgins can threaten her with.

Truth is, she could get excluded right this second and she wouldn’t even care. 

She looks down at her hand. Nurse George bandaged it, but the blood is already starting to seep through. There must be something broken, because it hurts hell. It just _had_ to be her left hand, didn’t it? Allison just had to call Brittany a “fucking moron,” while she was gossiping with the rest of her minions and Santana was in earshot. She flew across the room, climbing over the bench to square up to her. 

_“What was that, Mack?” she demanded, pushing Allison hard in the chest._

_“Aww, she’s defending her little girlfriend! How cute!”_

Her hands clenched into fists, her entire body vibrating with rage. She didn’t hear the Allison’s minions or the other girls laughing and whispering. She didn’t even hear Quinn and Mercedes’ pleas for her to walk away.

_“Shut your fucking mouth!”_

_“Or what Lezzie Lopez?”_

Then it happened. Her fist flew up, and she punched Allison in the face, hard. Who knew she actually learned something during those lame ass boxing lessons with Puck? Except, she didn’t stop at one punch. She didn’t even stop when she had Allison pinned to the ground and she wasn’t really fighting back anymore. She wanted to make Allison hurt as much as she is right now. The only thing that did it was the thought of Brittany, and how disappointed she’d be in her. By the time Miss Holliday dragged her off, she’d lost it; screaming and ranting, fighting against her with everything she had.

Not her finest hour, but she’s not sorry, not even a little bit. Allison deserved it. She has a reputation to protect. She’s Santana _fucking_ Lopez, McKinley’s top bitch, and that’s not about to change. No one talks about Brittany like that and gets away with it. No one knows what really goes on between them. She just loves Brittany is all. She’s not about to start waving rainbow flags, wearing flannel or join those fucking loser freaks in the GSA. The rumours will be all over school already, she has to shut them down somehow. She knows she’s made it worse for herself rather than better, because this shithole is full of people like her, but she’ll knock everyone of them out if she has to. 

“Look, I know you’re all itching to make this into some kind of intervention,” she starts, defensive, “but just do the detention or suspend me or whatever. I don’t wanna hug this out.”

“Fine, have it your way,” Figgins begins, scribbling something down on the pad in front of him. “You’re suspended for a week, and both you Allison will see Miss Pillsbury together when you return.”

“Fantastic. It’s been a pleasure as always, Figgie!”

She resists the huge urge she has to bring up how many times Kurt’s gotten his ass kicked and nothing happened to any of the knuckle-dragging idiots behind it, and just nods in reply. 

With a smile she hopes is smug, she rises, ignoring Mr Schue’s shocked “Santana!” and barging her way past Coach Sylvester out of the office. All she does is shake her head, and it’s enough to make Santana feel even worse. Somehow, Coach’s disappointment is worse than her own mother’s.

Just when she thought she’d reached rock bottom, she’s proved wrong. She can still hear Mr Schue calling after her when she comes face to face with Brittany, headed for the choir room, Artie wheeling behind her. 

“Santana, what happened?” she asks, gesturing to her hand.

Brittany looks at her with this sweet, concerned face and she can’t stand it. Santana can’t stand that she still cares about her and yet, doesn’t care quite enough. 

At least Wheels has the good sense to say silent, because she doesn’t know what she’d do if he dared to think of speaking. 

She just stares for a moment, not believing for a second that Quinn or Mercedes or someone else hasn’t told her what went down. Of course she knows, but Brittany being Brittany, she wants to hear the truth from her instead of third hand Chinese whispers. Well, fuck that, it hasn’t helped so far. 

“What does it matter to you?” she spits back, and for a second, she sees a flicker of pain in Brittany’s eyes. 

What she really means is ‘I did it for you. I was just protecting you. I love you’ but none of that can come out. Not here. Not now. 

Before Brittany can even think of answering, she turns her back, striding with purpose toward the parking lot. It takes all her will not to stop when Brittany calls out to her. It takes even more not to turn around, run straight back to her and kiss her for all she’s worth. With every step she takes, she flexes her injured hand; nostrils flaring as she silently endures a fresh spike of pain. She’s disgusted with herself. She’s even more disgusted that all she wants, still, is for Brittany to hold her and soothe her, pressing little kisses to her knuckles. 

She can’t have that, so she’ll do what she always does. She’ll go to the 7-11 on the corner and by booze with her fake ID because she always flashes her tits at the cashier so he always serves her. Then, she’ll go and hit up Puck’s and they’ll smoke some of that Lady Chronic shit he’s always got. By the end of the night, she probably won’t remember how much her hand hurts or how much she hates Allison Mackenzie, but she will remember how much she loves Brittany, there’s nothing in the world strong enough that can make her forget that. No matter how hard she tries.


	6. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during S5. References Dani/Santana, but the focus remains on Brittany's feelings about Santana entering a new relationship. An anonymous prompt, ”This sounds a lot like a break-up to me.” Inspired by the Ke$ha song of the same name.

***

_Find a way to close the door  
And be okay with nothing more but  
Found you once, you're lost again_

***

_Santana Lopez is available._

She wanted to look nice because this is their first Skype in a while – either she’s busy or Santana’s busy – but all she’s got time to do is take off her jacket, brush her hair, and check that her laptop is in the right position. She knows Santana won’t care, they’ve Skyped in their pyjamas before, but it’s different now. 

Everything’s different since she came to Boston. She wants to show Santana how well she’s settled in and how good everything is going. Even if it’s not. 

The call rings out for what feels like a long time.

“Hey you!” Santana greets her brightly, waving. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she offers, apologetic.

“It’s cool. You’re here now,” Santana says, with a smile.

The first thing she notices how pretty Santana looks. Now she doesn’t see her all the time, it’s really easy to forget how much. Her hair is curly at the ends, still wet from a shower and she’s just in sweats and t-shirt, wearing her glasses because she hasn’t bothered with her contacts. Most people would think that means she doesn’t care, but Brittany know it means she’s comfortable enough _not_ to care, and there’s a really big difference. 

It’s a good sign. 

The second thing she notices is that Santana’s all alone in the loft. There’s no music playing, no Kurt or Rachel shouting their hellos or running into view and interrupting everything by telling her their news instead (that used to happen a lot). 

That’s not such a good sign. 

“Was there a math geek fight at the photocopier or something?”

“Hey, _I’m_ a math geek now!” she protests, but laughs anyway.

“You’re too cool for that. Genius yes, but geek? No way.”

Oh she’s missed this. She’s missed her and how easy it is to talk to her because she’ll never think anything she says is weird or more important than it actually is. 

Being a genius isn’t so much fun. It’s really lonely. 

They talk for a long time, about how they’ve been and what they’ve been doing, swapping stories about Boston and New York, and it’s just fun to be able to share everything with her again. All the while Brittany can feel herself relaxing; all the tension and the worry she’s been feeling just melts away. It’s always been like that. When they’re together, nothing else matters. 

Santana goes to get herself juice, there’s a lull in the conversation and it’s not the same when she comes back. The mood is different. Santana looks very serious all of sudden. She has this weird, heavy feeling in her chest and it won’t go away. It’s only happened once before, and she doesn’t like to think about what it means now. 

“So,” Santana begins, running hand through her hair. “I have something to tell you.”

Brittany swallows hard, gripping the arms of her desk chair tightly.

“And I wanted to tell you myself before you found out from anyone else.”

The heaviness in her chest gets heavier. She knows where this is going. She stays quiet, nodding so Santana will carry on talking, even though she just wants to slam the laptop closed. 

If she doesn’t hear her say it, it’s not true. 

“I …” Santana pauses, looking up past the camera lens for a second, but then she’s back, looking right at her, “I met someone.”

And there it is. The three words Brittany’s been dreading since she pushed Santana to go to New York in the first place. 

“That’s great,” she manages at last, but she can tell from the look on Santana’s face that she doesn’t believe her. “I’m really happy for you.”

It almost kills her to smile. 

She’s not really sure how to feel. One second she feels nothing at all, and then she feels about twenty things all at once and none of them are good. But she doesn’t have a right to feel angry or sad or anything, because of the mess with Sam and because she told her to do it. Maybe she’s still stupid after all, because even though she desperately wanted Santana to be happy and not hold her back anymore, she didn’t realise how hard it would be to see Santana happy someone who wasn’t her.

They talk for a little while longer, but she’s doing most of the listening this time, because Santana was right, talking about this is weird. She doesn’t know how to be friends with her and nothing else. She never really has. So, she’s left watching the screen as Santana talks in this sweet, shy kind of way about a girl called Danielle – Dani – who works with her and how it’s still early and she’s not really sure where it will go. Brittany smiles and nods along, feeling utterly torn because half of her is miserable and half of her happy and it’s a tug-o-war she can’t win. 

That’s when Brittany realises. They’re over. It’s a real break-up this time. 

The goodbye they share when Kurt and Rachel come in – quiet and sheepish when they realise what they’ve interrupted – feels final. She has no one to blame but herself. It’s dark out by the time she shuts down her laptop, unable to stop looking at the status message on the screen.

_Santana Lopez is unavailable._


	7. 1000 Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love Sara Bareilles and I love this song beyond words. It makes me ridiculously emotional, so I don't know if I've even begun to do it justice. I also love elaborating on season one canon, so I ran with it. Prompted by [gleeaim13](http://gleeaim13.tumblr.com). Inspired by the Sara Bareilles song of the same name.

***

_Again, again_  
 _I let it go, let it go_  
 _Cover my mouth_  
 _Don't let a single word slip out_

***

“Do you feel better now?” Brittany asks gently, pulling down her sleep shirt and climbing onto the bed.

“A little,” Santana replies, toying with a bottle of nail varnish and trying her best to smile.

It’s a lie. She’s getting good at telling those. She still feels shitty, and her head hurts, but mostly, she’s just embarrassed about what happened earlier tonight.

“Good,” Brittany beams. “I’m glad,” she continues, taking Santana’s hands to finish painting the fingernails of her left hand a bright, scarlet red.

McKinley Titans have their first game tomorrow. They have to look their best.

They’re sitting Indian style opposite each other, after bailing from a party at Quinn Fabray’s house. They only went because everyone else was going, and they’ve been in school less than a month, so everything’s still for the taking. Unless they want to lose the spot on the squad they fought so hard for, then they have to do pretty much anything.

It’s tiring. She’s bored of it already. High school is nothing like she imagined. At least here, in the confines of Brittany’s room, she can be herself, or something like it, because she’s not really sure who that is anymore. No, she has a plan, and she’s sticking to it. They’re going to get to the top of the food chain as quick as they can and stay there. She won’t be the scrawny kid that got picked on, and Brittany won’t get teased and called stupid. Not if they value breathing.

Before they started at McKinley, she made a promise to Mrs Pierce that she’d take care of Brittany, and she doesn’t intend to break it. She’ll protect her at all costs. Even if that means hurting herself.

The party started well at least. She and Brittany got dressed up and looked super hot. Matt Rutherford from her math class actually spoke more than two words to her, and he’s pretty nice, not nearly as stupid as some of the guys in her class. Her father would approve, so that’s a start. That Puckerman kid brought booze _and_ the entire football team, so Quinn’s plan pretty much paid off. She could run around looking important while she played hostess – a carbon copy of her mother and her sister Frannie rolled into one.

Until tonight, Santana thought that Puck was OK for a jock, better than that moron Finn Hudson anyway. Quinn called dibs already, so she and all the other Cheerios are left feasting on the scraps, but she doesn’t really care. She doesn’t care because Puckerman decided to start talking to Brittany and dancing with her and making her laugh. For some weird reason, watching the entire disgusting spectacle unfold before her made her angry, and left her stomach tied in knots, and she’s never wanted to punch anyone so bad in her life. Except she couldn’t, because he’s much stronger than he and everyone – Brittany included – would think she’s a total freak. So, she just stood there watching and kept taking the drinks offered to her by Matt and the other boys, until she couldn’t really feel anything at all. Before she knew it, she was in the Fabrays’ yard, puking up in Judy’s prize rose bushes, while Matt helplessly looked on.

It’s her own fault for drinking on an empty stomach because of Coach Sylvester’s stupid cleanse. Now Quinn’s going to think she’s weak. She _hates_ looking weak.

A few minutes later, Brittany was there, holding her hair and rubbing her back, saying all these nice things to calm her down, and she didn’t need much coaxing to leave the party. Matt walked them home and carried her upstairs, and Brittany’s been taking care of her ever since. She’s never been gladder that her parents are rarely home, because she wouldn’t know how to explain any of it.

Teeth cleaned, make-up off, and ready for bed, she feels almost human again. They’re huddled together under the duvet, and Brittany’s _Sweet Valley High_ DVD is playing for the millionth time in the background, but it’s just noise really – comforting noise – but she can’t quite let herself relax like she used to. The knots in her stomach are still there.

They’re always there now. She doesn’t know why.

Another lie. She knows exactly why. It’s because the last time they were sat like exactly like this, Brittany just kissed her out of nowhere for no real reason. All she wants is for it to happen again, because it feels amazing. Brittany’s lips are perfect and soft and careful. She kisses her like she matters and the rest of the world doesn’t. She kisses her like no one else does.

She wants it so badly that it hurts. She wants her so badly that it hurts.

If it were anyone else, she’d turn tail and run. She’d never so much as look at them again, but its Brittany, her best friend in the whole world since forever. She can’t leave her, not now, not ever. The idea of being without her hurts more than being with her, so she has no choice but to stay. She has a promise to keep, after all.

One day, maybe it’ll hurt less.


	8. The Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another spin on early Brittana, through the eyes of the wonderful Miss Brittany S. Pierce. I have a lot of feelings about this. More than I ever thought. Prompted by [ijustkeepmovin](http://ijustkeepitmovin.tumblr.com). Inspired by the George Strait song of the same name.

***

_Yeah, I like this song too  
it reminds me of you and me._

***

She and Santana haven’t been members for long, but Brittany already thinks joining glee club might be the best thing ever. Mr Schuester is kind, and even though he talks a lot about weird old songs, she likes him better than Coach Sylvester already. Coach is really mean, and sometimes she makes Santana cry.

(Brittany hates seeing Santana cry. She tries her best to hide it. Santana hides a lot of things)

Cheerios is fun, but everyone’s the same and they all talk about the same things. That gets super boring after a while, so it’s nice to do something different. She likes meeting new people and she likes dancing even more, but the best thing about it is Santana is here with her, so they get to hang out even longer. Santana’s glaring at everyone with her arms folded across herself because she doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t on the football team or the Cheerios yet, but Brittany doesn’t think the others are so bad. None of them have said anything horrible to her yet, so she’ll like them until she has a reason not to.

(Santana isn’t so good with new people, but she will be, eventually. Brittany’s sure of it)

OK, so they’re meant to be spying for Coach Sylvester, but it doesn’t mean they can’t join in right? She really wants to, because Finn is singing with Rachel Berry, and though he’s tall and annoying and she’s small and annoying, they sound really good together. Finn’s the captain, so basically they have to do what he says, which Santana isn’t too happy with. Right now, Quinn doesn’t look too happy either. Probably because they’re singing a really pretty love song and look more in love than Finn and Quinn do most of the time.

Maybe if she danced, like Mike and Matt are, Santana would sing. Not many people know it, but she has a really good voice. She only sings when they’re in the car, and when they sang back up for Quinn, she didn’t even really try.

(If Santana sang the way she’s heard her sing, then even Rachel Berry might shut up for more than two seconds)

When she tries to get up, Santana puts her arm across her lap to stop her from moving and just shakes her head. Santana’s done that a lot since they got to McKinley. The Santana she gets to see at home and the one everyone else sees at school are different. 

“Not yet,” Santana warns, quietly. “Not until Coach says we can.”

Sitting still is boring. Santana knows she hates it.

“Lame,” she sighs, pouting.

Santana looks sad for a second, but then she tries to smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Soon, Britt-Britt.”

She misses seeing Santana smile, it’s really pretty. It’s prettier than everyone else’s because she doesn’t do it all the time, so it’s like seeing lightning or a rainbow when you least expect it. 

When Rachel hits a really high note and everyone else starts clapping and cheering, she slides her hand between Santana’s chair and the small of her back; fingertips stroking the soft strip of skin she can always find because their Cheerios top and skirt don’t quite meet sometimes. She just wants to make her feel better, and it always seems to calm her, just like when she pets Lord Tubbington. 

Even though Santana doesn’t like Tubbs all that much – and not because he scratches her a lot – she thinks they’re a pretty similar sometimes. 

Santana lets out a shuddering breath, and for a second she looks angry and nervous all at once, and Brittany thinks about moving her hand away, just in case. But then, she relaxes – she’s always so tense these days – smiling at her instead. When Santana’s head comes to rest on her shoulder, Brittany smiles too.

(Soon feels a little closer than it did before)


	9. I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the near future. Follows canon up to the end of S5. This is probably the closest I'll get to writing fluff. Prompted by [allthrumyribs](http://allthrumyribs.tumblr.com). Inspired by the Placebo song of the same name.

***

_I wanna be much more like you  
The way your smile lights up the room_

***

It’s a cold and dreary Friday in the middle of November, and the rain that’s battering down on the roof is drowning out the soft piano music that’s always playing, but Santana wouldn’t trade this for the world. They’re at BreadstiX, in their favourite corner booth and they’ve just eaten their favourite meal, sharing little bites between them because they can never decide what to order. Nothing beats it. Not even the fancy places they save up to dine at in New York. 

Whenever they’re back a visit, BreadstiX is their first stop. It’s always been a special place to them, but after today, it’s going to be even more important than before. 

She’s finally going to do it. She’s going to ask Brittany marry her. 

Everyone and their mother knows it’s going to happen. Everyone except Brittany, that is. Mercedes has been texting her every two seconds to ask how it’s going. Kurt planned her outfit right down to the diamond studs in her ears, and Rachel’s taken it upon herself to be their wedding planner, and Puck keeps trying to convince her that a double ceremony in Vegas with him and Quinn is the way to go (she doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s not legal there yet). 

It’s sweet they care so much, but God, how will she ever explain it if it doesn’t go to plan? Brittany could say no, after all. 

OK so, she knows she could be wearing a trash bag and the engagement ring that’s been languishing every pocket of every outfit since she picked it out with Quinn a month ago could be out of a Christmas cracker and Brittany would still marry her, but she’s still nervous – the dry mouth sweaty palm kind of nervous. In front of her, wrapped in a napkin shaped into a swan, is a Tiffany ring she worked herself to death to pay for, and she can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than Brittany.

They’re barely twenty-one, and to most people that’s ridiculously young – sometimes it terrifies even her – but she’s known she was hopelessly, ridiculously in love with Brittany since she was fourteen. Even if she didn’t want to admit it at the time, that’s seven whole years of loving her, that’s a third of her life, so in that sense, it seems like an eternity of waiting. Truthfully, it’s not about claiming Brittany in a possessive way or even any of that narcissistic bullshit about it being a symbol of their love and commitment to one another. She doesn’t need a ring and a piece of paper to show that, it’s just about the fact she can’t think of anything she wants more than to call Brittany her wife, wake up with her every morning and go to sleep with her every night. When that happens, she’ll be the luckiest girl in the world. 

Finally, Brittany’s coming back to table after talking to the waiter for what feels like forever and paying the bill – it’s her turn. They always make an effort for their dates, but tonight, with her hair up, and in a dress and heels she brought for her, Brittany’s stunning. 

Well, it’s now or never. She puffs out a steadying breath, drinks the last of her wine, and tips the waiter the signal. He has champagne on ice, ready to bring when she’s finally popped the question. Either way, she’ll be getting drunk.

“Sorry that took forever,” Brittany sighs, sliding into her seat opposite. “The machine wouldn’t take my card.”

“It’s OK,” she replies with smiling, placing her hand over Brittany’s and stroking the back of it with her thumb. “You’re worth waiting for.”

Brittany looks away, blushing furiously as she sips on her coffee. “Stop being so adorable.”

“I think you’ll find its called smooth, not adorable,” she fires back, with a wink. 

“This place makes you romantic,” Brittany says, looking at her with such adoration that Santana can’t breathe. “I like it.”

She glances over at the swan napkin, remembering a very different version of herself who used it to hide the fact she wanted to hold hands. Now she doesn’t want to hide anything at all. She wants to shout it from the rooftops. 

“It’s the lighting,” she replies, looking at Brittany over the rim of her own coffee cup as she drinks.

Everything in her is screaming ‘do it now,” even though Brittany now has a mouth full of mint chocolate because she looks fucking beautiful and it just can’t wait. So, she takes a breath, the biggest she can without it looking weird, glances over at the waiter again, and goes for it.

“Brittany?”

“Hmm?” there’s hint of surprise in her voice. Santana rarely calls her that.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about asking you for a while.”

She edges forward, hoping to time her speech so she’ll be in the right place at the right time. When rain finally dies off, and they can hear the piano music again, the she has to keep from punching the air, because the waiter came through on their other arrangement. The jazz has been replaced by something more familiar. It’s a version of ‘Songbird’ that she got Brad, the guy who used to play for them at school to record for her specially.

“Santana, is that?”

“Uh-huh. I got them to play it for us … for you …”

Brittany’s eyes are glistening with tears already.

“Because, you’re my songbird, Britt. You’re my soulmate.”

Letting go of Brittany’s hand, she slips out of her seat, well aware that other people in the restaurant have caught on and their chatter has died down. Brittany’s eyes are already glistening with tears, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself. It’s adorable. She keeps her focus entirely on Brittany so she can get through without messing up. 

It has to be perfect. She’ll only do this once. 

“Because I adore you. Because you’re the first person I ever gave my heart to and fell hopelessly in love with.”

“Santana,” Brittany breathes, hand flying up to her mouth.

“Because,” she pauses, taking a breath to steady herself as she fights tears of her own. “Because you saw the real me, when no one else did. Because you loved me, when no one else could, not even me,” she lets out a laugh at that, and Brittany smiles, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Because, you make me a better, braver, and more honest person.”

Then, she leans in close; curling Brittany’s hair behind her ear and whispers, “Look under the napkin.”

Brittany exhales a shaky breath, leaning forward to take it, carefully unwrapping it with unsteady hands. The box creaks satisfyingly loud when she opens it, and an even more satisfying gasp follows it. She puts it down on the table, staring at it in disbelief. 

“Oh my God!” she exclaims, awed. “Oh my God! Santana!” 

Santana’s imagined this moment countless times, but she’s never come close to what it actually feels like. 

When Brittany looks back at her again, she’s already down on one knee. It’s cheesy and ridiculous, and her dress is kind of too short to be doing it, but what the hell. If she can’t do it now, when can she? 

“Because I want to share every moment of the rest of my life with no one else.”

This is it. This is the moment. All she has left to say are four words. Four little – but massively important – words.

“Will you marry me?”

The world stops. Everything is quiet and she’s looking up at Brittany for what feels like an eternity. Then, she blinks, and everything kicks back into gear and Brittany’s cradling her face such tenderness, pressing kiss after kiss to her lips. It takes her far too long to realise the word Brittany’s saying in between them, more breathless and emphatic each time.

The relief is immense. 

“Yes … Yes … Yes.”

And then, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

She stands up slowly, tears of joy streaming down her face, and Brittany’s smiling at her, big and bright and beautiful. Santana’s never felt so happy in her life. Happy is too small a word for too large a feeling. As the whole restaurant erupts in cheers and applause, she kisses Brittany again, smiling against her lips as she reaches for the ring. Her hands are shaking as she slides it carefully on, sending up a silent prayer that it fits.

“It’s perfect,” Brittany breathes, holding it up to the light and admiring it. “It’s beautiful.”

Before she can think of replying, Brittany closes the distance between them, pulling Santana into her arms. When waiter arrives with the champagne, cork popping loudly, they’re kissing, tender and deep, not caring who can see. It might’ve taken them a long time to get here, but now, in this moment, she knows it was worth every second of the wait.


	10. C'Mon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A newly-reunited Brittana together in New York. Prompted by my beta and partner in creative crime [itcameuponamidnightqueer](http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com). This is a riff on an idea we had a long time ago also inspired by [this](https://31.media.tumblr.com/0ff8c08ab3ef426a39d82c038a93632d/tumblr_n3orh5eB6X1txkikoo1_500.jpg) [NSFW] picture, because Car is determined to make me write less angsty stories, and my brain likes pictures as much as words. I hope it meets your expectations my dear! Inspired by the Panic at the Disco/Fun song of the same name.

***

_What would my head be like_   
_if not for my shoulders?_   
_Or without your smile?_   
_May it follow you forever._   
_May it never leave you to sleep in the storm_   
_May we stay lost on our way home._

***

OK, so they might’ve had a _little_ bit too much to drink, but they had double cause for celebration. It was Ladies Night at Coyote Ugly, and Santana never got the chance to take Brittany there when she was actually a Coyote. They’re doing a lot of things they never got the chance to now they’re back together again and Brittany is official housemate number … whatever … she’s lost count.

There a lot of people packed in here these days, but Brittany’s the only one that matters.

“Shusssh,” Santana warns, patting her pockets to find her keys. “We have to be quiet, everyone’s sleeping.”

It’s a struggle to see in this light, and it’s an even bigger struggle to turn the key in the lock – she lost the motor skills for that about five tequila shots ago, when Camille hauled them up on the bar during ‘Tik-Tok.’ Somehow, she manages, even if Brittany is being _really_ unhelpful – and really _really_ helpful – and won’t stop touching her for more than two seconds. She loves nights like this, when she’s buzzed and giddy and stupidly happy. It’s a feeling she’s still getting used to. So, they barely have any money most of the time, and she’s seen more of Blaine, Kurt and Sam than she really ever needed to, but it’s good. It’s really good. She just loves living with her and seeing her every day.

“OK,” Brittany nods, moving closer, wrapping her arms around Santana’s waist, already tugging impatiently at her shirt, fingertips curling underneath.

“Stop it!” Santana squeals, when Brittany starts to trace patterns up over her hipbones. “You know that tickles!”

“I know,” Brittany murmurs, dipping her head, and latching onto Santana’s neck, kissing her greedily. “That’s why I do it.”

“Britt,” she protests weakly, her hands covering Brittany’s own as she tries and fails to resist leaning back into her touch. “We need to get inside first.”

“Oh,’ Brittany teases. “I will be.”

Santana lets out an indecent groan, and Brittany just throws her this infuriating little smirk.

They stumble through the door, clinging on to each other as they twist and turn to fit through the tiny gap they’ve allowed themselves. When Brittany reaches back to slide it closed again, it bangs horrendously loud and they both flinch.

“Shoes,” Santana reminds her quietly, the memory of Rachel’s last rant about it is enough for her never to make the same mistake. She’s super OCD about them not wearing heels all over the loft, so they have to keep them in this little box by the door instead.

“Shit!” Brittany murmurs, colliding with the little ramp that leans against the wall that Kurt’s dad made so Artie can get inside the loft when he comes to visit. Luckily she manages to catch it before it clatters to the ground.

They both let out a sigh of relief, and Santana puts her fingers to her lips again to remind Brittany before they make another move. Their guilt lasts for all of two seconds, because Brittany smacks her on the ass and she lets out the most ridiculous, girlish giggle ever. “Brittany!”

“Santana!” she mocks, singsong.

“I can hear you, you know!” Kurt yells, cutting across the loft. “Some of us are trying to sleep!”

Brittany mouths an ‘oops,’ not looking in the least bit sorry, and Santana desperately tries not to laugh.

“Sorry Kurt!” Santana calls back. “Go back to sleep.”

“I can but try,” he sighs heavily.

“We’ll try not to be too loud!”

“All you’re doing right now is trying my patience, Santana!”

She would’ve sounded sincere, had Brittany not chosen that exact moment to pull the same trick as before, pulling off her jacket and moving them both in the vague direction of what passes for Santana’s room, in this weird sort of chase-turned striptease, so she’s giggling even louder and swatting at Brittany to make her stop, because she’s very aware that Kurt’s listening.

“He’s no fun,” Brittany declares, still too loud, mostly to herself and Santana cracks up again.

When there’s nothing else but the sound of rustling bedclothes and Kurt’s vague mutterings, she turns back to Brittany, who’s looking at her in this hungry, lustful way. Santana’s frozen to the spot, watching as she shrugs off her jacket and the thin shirt underneath it in one graceful move. It’s hot as hell, and makes Santana want to do unspeakably bad things to her in bed for hours. Suddenly, she’s not so worried about hurting anyone’s feelings – and is far more concerned with the fact that Brittany is still wearing way too many clothes for her liking.

Lady Hummel can suck it; she’ll buy him some earplugs. It’s not like she doesn’t have to hear God knows what now Blaine’s here, and then Adam before that. The less said about Rachel and Brody, the better. It’s there time to suffer now. It’s their own fault for saying Brittany could stay anyway. They’re crazy about each other, and the sex is amazing, so there’s no universe, parallel or otherwise, where they won’t be like this all the damn time. They’re just going to have to deal with it.

Right now, she’s got more important things to worry about.

“C’mere,” Santana growls, pulling Brittany toward her by the belt loops of her jeans.

This time, it’s Brittany that squeals. Then, they’re kissing again, slow and deep, and she has her hands in Brittany’s hair, tugging just a little. Brittany moans into her mouth, grabbing her by the hips and lifting her up and carrying her toward the bedroom. She wraps her legs around Brittany’s waist to keep from falling and it changes everything. The kisses turn greedy and desperate and graceless because there’s too much of Brittany touching her. When they land on her bed – their bed now, she corrects – with a bounce, they’re both laughing again, breathless and wanting.. Santana’s spent so much of the night smiling that her face is starting to hurt, but she doesn’t really care. Not when Brittany is straddling her hips and helping her out of what’s left of her clothes; untangling Santana’s hair from the straps of her top.

“I want to get our own place,” she says, lazily lifting her lips when Brittany moves back to pull off her jeans. “I’m done apologising for wanting to touch my own girlfriend,” she continues, resting on her elbows and watching Brittany’s every move. They’re both in nothing but their underwear now, and the sight of Brittany before her makes her ache with want.

“Yes,” Brittany replies, slowly nodding in agreement. “We totally should,” she continues, “but right now, I just want you naked.”

Her every word is punctuated with a series of feather light kisses that trail up from the tattoo on Santana’s left ankle to the softest part of her inner thigh. The higher the Brittany goes, the louder Santana gasps, her fingers tangling in Brittany’s hair.

“So, you just want me for my body!” she’s going for cute and playful, but the waver in her voice gives her away.

Brittany carries on her ascent, peppering Santana’s stomach with kisses, smiling against her skin when the muscles flex at the contact. Eventually, she draws level with Santana again, pressing their bodies flush. They both sigh in contentment, staring into each other’s eyes and Santana wraps herself around Brittany completely, pulling her down for another kiss. At the last moment, Brittany hesitates, and Santana’s confused until Brittany’s hands cradle her face.

“I want you for your everything,” she whispers, soft and sincere, before brushing the barest of kisses against Santana’s lips. Then another, and another, each deeper one than the last.

It doesn’t matter that Kurt and everyone else can hear, and they’ll make stupid jokes over breakfast tomorrow, or Rachel will bitch about the trail of clothes they’ve left behind. Santana can endure pretty much anything they throw at her, because she has Brittany back. She’s the only thing Santana can see, feel, and taste right now, and it’s all she’ll ever need.


	11. Wrecking Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Future fic. Follows canon up until 4x04 and departs thereafter. A blast from Santana's past forces her to reconnect with Brittany when she least expects it. An anonymous prompt inspired by the Miley Cyrus song of the same name.

***

_Don't you ever say_   
_I just walked away_   
_I will always want you_

***

Up until an hour ago, her life was pretty much perfect. She was a proper functioning adult with her own place, and the capable assistant manager of Planet Rose bar. Lima Ohio, William McKinley High School, Cheerios, and Glee were just a dim and distant memory. Everyone from those years is just a name on a contact list. She was over it all. She was over Brittany. It was fine. She was fine.

That all came crashing down the moment she set eyes on the blonde in the corner of the bar. Trent came in, eyes agleam to tell her about said girl while she was figuring out next week’s roster. At the mention of “blonde,” she froze. She wasn’t twenty-five anymore. She was fifteen. He spun some lame line about it being one of her “string of exes,” asking if he should offer some drinks on the house.

It was enough to get her downstairs.

The girl sitting with her back to the bar was the last person she expected to see. When Trent went over with a drink, pointing Santana out, the girl turned. It wasn’t Brittany. It was someone who looked a hell of a lot like her. By the time Santana had gotten within touching distance, it finally clicked. That girl was Christina – Chrissy – Brittany’s little sister. Except she wasn’t a smart-ass cute little kid anymore, was a sulky teenager with a nose stud and God knows how many other piercings, smack in the middle of a Goth phase. She ran away from home two weeks ago with her boyfriend, Wes. The boyfriend left her high and dry a little after Pittsburgh.

She chose the bar totally by chance.

Santana couldn’t just leave her there, no matter how much she wanted to turn her back, because she could still see that cute kid in there, hiding. She’d never forgive herself if anything happened and she had a chance to help her. So, she took her home, getting takeout on the way. Now Chrissy’s sleeping soundly in her bed, freshly showered and in borrowed clothes. Without all that make-up on, she looks a lot more like Santana remembers. She also looks a lot more like Brittany than Santana is comfortable with acknowledging.

She puffs out a breath, pacing the floor for the hundredth time before going out on to the balcony, hugging herself against the night chill. Chrissy’s phone is in her hand, Brittany’s number sits on the screen. All she has to do is tap and it’ll dial.

Brittany picks up in two rings.

_“Chrissy, where the hell have you been? We’ve all been so worried about you.”_

Santana closes her eyes, trying to muster the courage to speak. It’s been so long since she’s heard her voice that it sounds like a stranger. Maybe it is, but strangers don’t make her blood roar in her ears so loud she can’t hear herself think.

“Brittany, it’s me,” she says finally. “Santana.”

Her voice doesn’t sound like her own.

 _“What? How?”_ Brittany stammers, unable to hide her shock.

“Chrissy showed up at my bar tonight. She’s here at my apartment. She’s totally fine.”

 _“Oh thank God!”_ Brittany lets out a sigh of relief. _“We’ve been going out of our minds.”_

“I can imagine,” she replies, reflex, recognising the telltale sound of Brittany sniffing back tears. “Look, don’t travel now. It’s late and she’s sleeping so …” she tails off, not wanting to say that she’s worried about her driving crazy or getting into an accident.

She’s afraid to show she cares. After years of being angry with Brittany (but mostly herself) for what happened, she’d reached a strange kind of nothingness, where she could think of her and feel nothing. Well, at least, that’s what she thought.

_“Are you sure?”_

“Absolutely,” she picks at the peeling paint on the railing in front of her. “I’ll text you my address? You need directions?”

_“Thank you so much.”_

“No problem,” she shrugs. “I was just in the right place at the right time is all,” she deflects, suddenly embarrassed.

Neither of them says anything for what feels like a long time. All she can hear is Brittany breathing on the end of the line, and it’s as comforting as it ever was.

_“Santana?”_

“Yeah?”

_“I’m glad you’re one who found her.”_

The way she says it sound like ‘I missed hearing your voice.’

“Me too,” she admits, far too quickly, and hates herself.

That sounds a lot like ‘I missed you too.’

She’s still standing on the balcony long after the phone call ends, smoking her first cigarette in a long time, watching the long, thin plume of smoke rise into the air wondering how it will feel when Brittany’s standing in front of her for the first time in years. She’s fought so hard to put the pieces of her life back together, and now all she can think is that she was foolish to think the repairs would ever last, but maybe the most foolish thing of all was to let Brittany go in the first place.


	12. Telegraph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 4x04 angst through the eyes of Miss Brittany S. Pierce. Bonus singer-songwriter/YouTube sensation Santana - another of my plethora of obsessions. Prompted by [xbitchcraft](http://xbitchcraft.tumblr.com). Thanks for indulging me and letting me play around with your favourite song! Inspired by the Drake Bell song of the same name.

***

_I guess I'm letting you go_   
_It's hard but it's just like they say_   
_You had to be so_   
_Hard on my heart and my head_

***

It’s been eleven days since Santana (unofficially) broke up with her, and she’s felt every single second of them pass, trying to figure out why they had to break up at all. If anything, she understands it less now than when it happened.

She’s not just lonely anymore, she’s alone, and there’s a difference. A really big difference. She’s not waiting for Santana to call or text. She’s not counting down the minutes until the next time they’ll Skype. There’s nothing, nothing at all. Silence. Her anger is gone, her sadness is gone, and she has no tears left to cry because they’re all gone too. There’s nothing, nothing at all, except for this huge empty space in her life where Santana used to be, and she has no idea how to fill it.

She throws down her pen, pushing her history homework out of the way in frustration. None of it matters now. She could flunk out of school, get kicked off the Cheerios and never set foot in another dance studio again. Without Santana, she has no reason to keep trying. Her eyes fall on the photograph of her and Santana that sits pride of place on her desk. They’re in the choir room, arms around each other; Santana smiles brightly – her real smile, not her fake one – and she’s kissing her on the cheek.

They look so happy and in love. It feels like a lifetime ago. She can’t help but reach out to touch Santana’s face, stroking the glass. The familiar pain that settled heavily in her chest the moment they kissed each other – their last kiss, she thinks, bitterly – spikes, and she whimpers, blinking back tears that threaten to fall.

When her phone chimes on table, she jumps. She shakes her head, angry with herself for giving in to her feelings. Again. Yanking open her desk drawer, she throws the picture inside, face down, and slams it closed again. Now she won’t be tempted to look. Turning away from her desk, she finally looks at her phone. It’s a text from Tina. She expects it to be like all the other sweet ones she’s sent since Santana left for college, inviting her out to the mall or the movies with Sugar, Artie, Sam and Blaine to try and cheer themselves up. They’re missing people too. School isn’t the same. Glee isn’t the same. Sometimes she goes along, sometimes she doesn’t. Either way, the distraction rarely works. Everything reminds of Santana. Everything.

_Santana posted a new song. You should listen._

She doesn’t really know what to say, so she just turns back to her desk, opens her laptop and refreshes the webpage. Santana’s YouTube has been her homepage ever since she convinced her to set it up years ago, and she can’t bring herself to change it even now.

The video starts to play, showing Santana in her room at Louisville. It’s the first she’s made since leaving. Brittany’s so used to seeing the backdrop of pictures and posts that signals Santana’s the far corner of her bedroom, where her piano, iMac and studio setup lives, that the blank wall and keyboard she sits in front of instead comes as a shock.

There’s no cute little introduction explaining why she picked the song to cover, who or what the song she wrote is about and how it came to be written, she just goes straight into it. The first thing she realises is how tired Santana looks and how the light in her eyes is completely gone. The second thing she realises is that this isn’t just any song; it’s a song for her. Santana’s songs are rarely the sweet, happy kind of love song; they’re the sad but painfully beautiful kind.

This is the saddest one she’s ever heard.

Her phone chimes again with another text from Tina, and she glances down to read it, not wanting to tear her eyes away from the screen.

_She’s hurting too, B._

Sometimes, Brittany forgets that.

The truth of Tina’s words hits her hard, and she’s crying again, silent tears, mirroring Santana’s own onscreen as she sings, completely lost in the moment. Usually, Santana would make her stop the recording, and they’d start over or she’d edit it later. There’s no one to stop the camera and there’s no editing either. This is all one take. Santana’s laying herself bare for everyone they know (and millions of people they don’t) to see.

She’s trying to explain herself, with every note, and every line.

The longer Brittany listens, the clearer things get. Santana didn’t break up with her out of anger or hatred; she did it out of love, to protect what they have and save it from being twisted and ruined like everyone else they know. That difference is what makes it so much harder to deal with. It would be easier if she hated her, but she just _can’t_. Santana was right, this break-up will never be official, because that would mean they’ve stopped loving each other, and that’s not possible.

That’s all Brittany needs to remember.


	13. Far Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the immediate aftermath of 'On My Way' Touches on both the Quinn and Dave plots explored in that episode. I'm still annoyed at how that whole era was handled, particularly from the perspective of The Unholy Trinity, so I needed to fix it with words. I'm sorry for what this does to your hearts. I really am. Prompted by [5150allthebestpeopleare](http://5150allthebestpeopleare.tumblr.com). Inspired by the 12 Stones song of the same name.

***

_Something keeps on pulling me down_  
 _And I feel like I'm losing ground_  
 _Trying just to find my reasons_  
 _And losing sense of what is real_

***

The mood is sombre.

Up until a few hours ago, all she had to worry about was if she could make it through Rachel and Finn’s wedding without it being a serious test of her gag reflex and counting the seconds until she could take off the disgusting Pepto-Bismol pink bridesmaid dress Rachel forced on them. Now, she’s still wearing the damn dress, but she’s also sitting in a hospital cafeteria with everyone else, and it feels like she’s going to throw up any minute, because it’s _wrong_.

There was no wedding, because Quinn’s upstairs in surgery, fighting for her life after getting t-boned by a truck.

No one knows what to say or how to feel, so they’re not saying anything. They can’t do anything either. She’s never felt so useless. She had two odd immediate thoughts: what about Beth and what about Yale.

It’s not fair.

Opposite her, Puck is pacing the floor, wearing a hole in the linoleum. If it was Brittany in that operating theatre, she doesn’t know how she’d cope. She’s barely coping now.

Everyone else is spread out across two tables, staring into coffee or juice or food they haven’t touched, unable to look each other in the eye. She sits with Brittany in the corner, arm around her shoulders, idly stroking her hair to comfort her. Santana can’t do much right now, but she can stop Brittany’s tears and make her feel better, so she’ll take it.

If Rachel keeps on sobbing like she is, swatting away Finn’s attempts to comfort her, Santana’s going to punch her lights out. At least she’s in the right place for recovery. Quinn was calling her, but she hasn’t got a monopoly on guilt. If anyone should be weeping and wailing, it’s her and Brittany. Quinn’s their best friend for God’s sake. It’s days like this she wishes they’d done a little less bitching and scheming and a little more deep and meaningful conversation.

_You can’t break up the unholy trinity._

As it turns out, you can.

The enormity of it dawns on her all at once.

Tears sting, well, and threaten to fall. They’ve been a long time coming. This is just the cherry on top of a really fucked up looking disaster of a cake. First Reggie Salazar and Finn, then the crazy shit with Karofsky last week – she still wants to go and see Dave, but doesn’t know if she should – and now this with Quinn. It’s just too much.

“Don’t cry,” Brittany whispers, kissing her atop the head. “I hate it when you cry.”

“You’re not allowed to die. You’re not allowed to leave me!” she cries, brokenly, sobbing into Brittany’s chest as she clings to her. “Promise me!”

It sounds so incredibly angry and she doesn’t know why.

“I promise,” Brittany whimpers, squeezing her tight. “I could never leave you!”

And then, she’s really crying. For Quinn. For Dave. For the deep-seated fear that one day, she’ll be the one frantically pacing a hospital corridor instead of Puck, and Brittany could be taken from her, just like that.

One simple twist of fate was all it took to bring them together, but one simple twist of fate could also tear them apart.


	14. I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 100  New York. Shameless fluff that I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing, and not just because I've wanted to do something like this forever. Consider it an apology for all the angst. Prompted by [my-broken-timemachine](http://my-broken-timemachine.tumblr.com). Inspired by the The Proclaimers song of the same name.

***

_When I'm working, yes, I know I'm gonna be_   
_I'm gonna be the man who's working hard for you_   
_And when the money comes in for the work I do_   
_I'll pass almost every penny on to you_

***

Sometimes she really loves working at The Spotlight. OK, so the pay isn’t _that_ great; the hours are long; and sometimes, the sheer stupidity and rudeness of some customers makes her not want to live on the planet anymore, but today, it was kind of awesome. Awesome enough for her not to care that she almost fell asleep on the subway, beyond tired from juggling shifts with auditioning or that her only sight of Brittany this week has been in the cute little Post-It’s she’s leaves behind.

It’s not every day you witness someone pop the question.

Right in the middle of her shift, this sweet tourist couple from Scotland got engaged and the whole diner sang to them. She still has the song stuck in her head hours later. It’s insanely catchy. Even Gunther – miserable, borderline creepy Gunther – was tapping is foot and mouthing the words, and maybe she got a little misty-eyed about it. _Maybe._ Sometimes she really likes the idea of doing something like that herself, only not have Rachel sing ‘Songbird’ because she’d likely bawl in front of everyone before she could get a word out.

Just as she expected, the apartment is quiet. They’re still getting used to the quiet now everyone’s stopped dropping in every two seconds to visit. Living together is weird, but an amazing kind of weird. She still has to pinch herself that it’s happening. Brittany’s class runs late on Tuesdays and she gets off early – oh irony – now she covers Kurt’s shift to thank him for all the Friday date nights he’s allowed them.

She shrugs off her coat, leaning against the couch to unzip her boots. The relief is instant. They’re the least practical thing about her ridiculous uniform. She’d happily burn it. When she sinks gratefully on to the nearest chair, she reaches for the note on the coffee table, smiling to herself when she sees Brittany’s handwriting.

_Hey beautiful,_

_Hope you had a good day. I ran you a bath so you can relax while I pick up our favourite takeout from Sardi’s. I’m totally spoiling you because you’ve been working so hard and you deserve it. Don’t fight me on it. I’m sure you’ll make it up to me :P_

_Be back soon._

_Love you,_

_B xxxx_

If she wasn’t completely head over heels in love crazy about her already, she would be right now. When she finally stops smiling and tracing her fingers over Brittany’s words long enough to muster the energy to drag herself toward the bathroom, she gets a surprise of her own. Brittany hasn’t just run her a bath at all. She’s gone all out. There are lit candles dotted over every surface, the scent of her favourite bubble bath fills the air, and they had to have missed each other by minutes because when she dips her hand in to test the water, it’s just right.

She has the best girlfriend ever, and it’s Brittany – loving her and taking care of her – that pushes her through the tough days when she questions why the hell she works so hard and why the rent on their tiny apartment is so high.

Stifling a yawn, she struggles with the buttons on her uniform, glad to step out of it and into the bathtub. The moment she settles in the water, sinking up to her chest and luxuriating in the warmth, the ache in her muscles starts to dissipate. She sighs contentedly, letting her eyes drift closed.

“Santana ….”

“Baby, wake up ….”

There’s a soft voice stirring her to wakefulness, a soft hand, carefully stroking her face and an even softer pair of lips kissing her gently.

Brittany. Brittany. Brittany.

“Mmm, you’re home,” she murmurs, sleepily, only just able to keep her eyes open.

“You fell asleep again,” Brittany laughs, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. It’s the third time in as many weeks this has happened. “Lucky I was here to rescue you.”

“Sorry,” she replies, pouting. “Did I ruin everything?”

“Of course not!” Brittany smiles, leaning over to kiss her again.

This time, it doesn’t stop at a peck. Brittany moans into her mouth as the kiss deepens, and she surges forward, grabbing the back of Brittany’s shirt to pull her closer. Then, that moan turns into a shriek and Brittany’s in the water on top of her, fully clothed, and there’s water flooding over the side of the tub. When they break for air, laughing, Brittany swats at her playfully before peeling off her shirt and throwing it, not caring where it lands. Then they’re kissing again, slow and deep, Santana’s arms threading around Brittany’s neck.

Dinner can wait.


	15. By Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU (ish) early Brittana. Blame this entirely on my fascination with Santana being a secret rich kid who has daddy issues. Prompted by the lovely [cobaltsiren](http://cobaltsiren.tumblr.com). Inspired by the Los Campesinos! song of the same name.

***

_But fate’s a cruel mistress, girl,  
the prettiest in the world._

***

Lima Country Club. Her three least favourite three words after ‘Cheerios master cleanse’ and ‘Saturday morning detention.’ She’s here to fulfil her monthly duty as her father’s show pony. He likes to trot her out at these Lima Memorial Hospital fundraisers because he’s chief of staff. Supporting the hospital’s cause makes him look like a saint, all the networking bags him potential clients for his private cosmetic work from the cream of Lima’s bored housewives crop, _and_ the fact she’s here means he scores points with her mother too. If she weren’t so tired of his tactics, she’d be impressed. And he wonders where she gets her penchant for scheming. Watch and learn. Watch and learn; that’s all she’s here for. 

It’s all politics. A necessary evil.

Even so, this isn’t really her world anymore, if it ever really was. It’s mind-numbingly boring, and she’s so over all the fake bullshit. She’s well practiced at playing the role of the dutiful daughter, and she got a killer outfit courtesy of her father’s credit card in exchange for her time. When she was five years old, it was toys and candy that kept her quiet about ‘daddy’s special friend,’ a decade later; it’s Marc Jacobs dresses and Michael Kors bags that buys her silence instead. It’s a pretty fair trade. She’s perfectly polite, smiling and nodding in all the right places, adept in the art of small talk from watching her mother do this when she was little, before it all went south and the first of many evil stepmothers came into the picture. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to deal with breathing the same air as Carmella today, so maybe her father does think about her wellbeing sometimes. 

The only thing that makes this remotely bearable is the fact Brittany agreed to give up her Saturday and come along. She had to fight for the ticket because her dad isn’t Brittany’s biggest fan. He thinks the fact they’re friends somehow holds her back because they’re too different; just a phase she’ll eventually grow out of. Except, he doesn’t know that they’re not _just_ friends anymore, and Brittany’s the furthest thing possible from a phase. She doesn’t really know what they are yet – it’s confusing, and she doesn’t like to think about it too much – but does know that she couldn’t waltz around here hand-in-hand with Brittany like Quinn and Sam are doing right now.

She feels kind of guilty, because Brittany’s missing out on time with her own dad for this – and it matters because Mr Pierce as a real dad who takes them places, not a walking ATM – that and the fact she has to keep leaving her to do laps of the field to drum up enthusiasm for the polo match and charity auction later on. She’d much rather sit and talk to Brittany instead. 

When she catches sight of her sitting on one of the hay bales in the stables – this year’s hiding place from her father, “because horses are cooler than people” – looking down at her phone and twirling one of her curls around her fingers, Santana can’t help but feel sad. She looks so lost and lonely without her, but so incredibly beautiful – a million times prettier than anyone else here – and she doesn’t even really know it. She’s perfect. Santana wishes she could take a picture just to stop the memory from fading. 

She wishes a lot of things where Brittany’s concerned. 

The time they’ve actually spent together has been good – mostly spent gossiping about all the women and their rich, wrinkly old husbands – but it’s been nowhere near as fun as last year when they snuck into the banqueting tent with Quinn and Sam. They stuffed themselves with cake and got drunk got so drunk on Prosecco that Quinn’s father’s assistant, Nate, had to bundle them into a cab and chaperone their ride home. She hasn’t looked at 

“Hey,” she whispers sweetly, stopping short of where Brittany is sitting. “Sorry I took so long.”

“It’s OK,” Brittany tilts her head, smiling. Santana forgets to breathe. “You have duties to carry out,” she continues, patting the empty space left on the bale.

“Uh-uh,” she nods. “I do, but I also have my duties as your best friend, and I’ve kind of sucked at that today.” Just when Brittany’s about to open her mouth to argue, Santana presents two champagne flutes from behind her back. “So, I got us something.”

“Oooh champagne!” Brittany beams, giving a little clap. “You’re awesome!”

She snuck them off the waiter’s tray while he was serving someone else. After flashing him a sultry smile, she made her escape, bringing them back to Brittany in the hope of making it up to her. Not so long ago, she probably would’ve made out with him to seal the deal, but she has more important things on her mind.

Almost all of those things are connected to Brittany Susan Pierce.

“For you, my lady!” she smiles, offering her the glass with a flourish before sitting down next to her. 

“Eww, it tastes weird,” Brittany says, making a face, looking at the glass suspiciously. “It’s super sour and, like, dry,” she continues with a shudder, tasting again to make sure. “Gross.”

It’s kind of an acquired taste, but it gets them drunk so who cares? Maybe she should’ve swiped one of the pink Prosecco bottles again instead. Brittany loved that.

“Oh Britt-Britt!” she laughs, taking a sip of her own. “It’s meant to taste like that.”

“I don’t like it,” Brittany shakes her head, putting the glass down on the floor.

Santana knew there was a reason she liked her. There are a lot of reasons, actually, but it’s always nice to find new ones. At least her father could never accuse Brittany of hanging around for her money. He’s never really understood her or understood Brittany either.

No one does really. 

Putting her glass next to Brittany’s, she waits for the last stable boy to leave, harness in hand, before she dares to move closer to her. It’s risky, given that they’re in such a public place and everyone here knows her either one or both of her parents, but it’s the first time they’ve been alone all day, and she’s not going to waste it.

She glances around quickly, “How about this?”

Cautiously, she reaches forward, pressing her lips to Brittany’s, gripping the bale to keep from touching her. 

It’s over before it starts. 

When she pulls away, Brittany’s eyes are wide, her mouth gaping just a little. Blinking back her surprise, she touches a finger to her lips, grinning. 

“You taste like strawberries …”

Then, Brittany’s the one reaching for her, and they both lose balance, falling backwards off the bale into the bigger stack behind it, more kisses muffling their squeals of surprise. It’s nothing like they kiss when they’re on Brittany’s bed; hot and heavy, pressed up against each other for long minutes, but it is enough to transfer her sticky sweet lipgloss, over and over on to Brittany’s mouth so she forgets all the about her newfound dislike for champagne. 

Maybe Lima Country Club isn’t so bad after all.


	16. Heartless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S2 era Santana struggling with her feelings after a watershed moment in her relationship with Brittany. Sunshine and roses not included. NSFW elements. Prompted by [heathmeout](http://heathmeout.tumblr.com). Inspired by the Kris Allen cover song of the same name.

***

_Talk and talk and talk and talk_   
_Baby let's just knock it off_   
_They don't know what we been through_   
_They don't know 'bout me and you_

***

Everyone says she doesn’t deserve Brittany. No one understands why Brittany refuses to give up on her and continues to love her in spite of the fact she’s a cruel, heartless bitch.

Right now, Santana doesn’t understand either.

Brittany got out of the car ten minutes ago, and she hasn’t turned the key in the ignition. She grips the steering wheel tight, unmoving, eyes trained on Brittany’s front door. Any second, she expects her to come running back down porch steps, knock on the car window and make her roll it down so she can apologise.

Not that Brittany has anything to apologise for. She’s rarely the one in the wrong. It’s almost always on her.

This time, she’s outdone herself.

They skipped their last class – because like they’re _ever_ going to need geometry in real life – and had lunch together at the Lima Bean before going back to her house to hang out. It started the same way it always starts, up in her room with sweet lady kisses, popcorn and _Sweet Valley High_ and Brittany mouthing all the words because they’ve seen every episode a million times. It ended the same way it always does, in bed together with their Cheerios uniforms strewn all over her bedroom floor.

Except, this time, it wasn’t just about indulging in some super hot, sneaky afternoon sex just to take the edge off the stresses of the day. It was still sneaky, and mind-blowingly hot, but it was _different_ ; slow, tender, and intimate in a way it’s never been before. She let go. She gave herself completely. Before she knew it, she’d broken the only rule they had left, and Brittany’s head was between her legs; tongue lapping and tracing patterns that made her dizzy and desperate until she couldn’t take anymore. She came harder than she ever has, calling out Brittany’s name over and over, fingers buried deep in her hair, hips rising to meet her.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

Overwhelmed, she burst into tears, still shaking in Brittany’s arms while she kissed her and soothed her. She can still hear Brittany’s voice, soft and lulling in her ear.

_“I’ve got you … It’s OK … I’m here.”_

It only made things worse.

They didn’t fuck, they made love.

She was never supposed to feel like this.

It was perfect. It was too much. So she had to ruin it.

She ruined it by shutting down and pushing her away. By refusing to talk and scrambling for her clothes when her mother’s key turned in the door. By hurriedly making excuses why Brittany couldn’t stay for dinner as her mother unpacked groceries. By ignoring the obvious hurt in Brittany’s eyes when she still refused to answer her questions.

After that, Brittany got angry, and she stopped talking too. The rest of the car journey was engulfed by silence. She couldn’t even talk if she wanted to. How can she possibly explain that she’s never felt so loved and safe in anyone else’s arms as she does in Brittany’s? How does she even begin to tell her that she’s never felt as close to anyone as she did this afternoon? Like they’re one person instead of two. How is it possible that all those things feel like the best and worst thing ever?

She can’t and she hates it. She hates that she hurts Brittany. She hates that she’s hurting herself. She doesn’t understand it, and the only person she wants to talk to, she can’t. No one else could be trusted with things like this but Brittany.

Except, now it’s happened, she feels different inside, like something has shifted or broken and she’ll never be the same as she was before. Neither will Brittany.

It’s terrifying.

Maybe everyone _is_ right. Maybe today is the day that Brittany has reached her limit. Maybe today Brittany will stop loving her, give up and walk away.

She never deserved her anyway.


	17. There, There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 4x22. Struggling in the unfamiliar surroundings of MIT, Brittany calls Santana for some much-needed support.Prompted by [thegayestgatsby](http://thegayestgatsby.tumblr.com). Inspired by the The Wonder Years song of the same name.

***

_Is this what it feels like with my wings clipped?_

***

As soon as she scrolls down to Santana’s number and dials it feels like a mistake, even though she said Brittany could call her any time of the day or night. 

They’re meant to be out in the world, doing their own thing – the mature thing, right? – separately. Except, she doesn’t feel separate, even though they’re miles apart. There’s this tugging in her chest; hard and insistent, and it feels like there’s a chord, stretching, twisting, straining over the distance between New York and Boston from her heart to Santana’s and neither of them can see to cut it loose. 

It’s always felt that way, but ever since their break-up, that feeling has gotten stronger.

Right now, it hurts so much she can barely breathe.

She’s sitting on her bed, legs dangling over the side, swinging them to and fro as she listens to Santana’s phone ring out. There’s one left before it kicks over to voicemail and she hears the message she knows off by heart.

(You’ve reached Santana Lopez. Obviously, I’m too busy being awesome to speak to you. If you’re name’s anything other than Brittany, hang up now. Britt, leave a message after the beep.)

But then, Santana picks up. She can hear a song playing in the background – it has to be Barbra – and Rachel singing along. In its own way, it’s comforting. 

_“Hey B, what’s up?”_

The second she hears Santana’s voice – soft and warm and everything that’s home –   
she bursts into tears.

_“Oh Britt-Britt,”_ Santana sighs heavily. _“What’s wrong?”_

“Everything,” she chokes out, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand.

It’s not a lie.

Santana’s breath hitches on the line. Brittany can practically hear her heart sink.

“I’m sorry for calling so late,” she gets out, between sobs. “It’s just… I hate it here, Santana. I hate it!”

Just saying that out loud is a relief. She’s been carrying it around for days.

The music in the background swells, and Rachel hits a particularly high note.

_“One second honey, I can barely hear a damn thing!”_

Honey. 

She looks up at the ceiling, biting back another sob.

_“Berry, will you can it?”_ Santana yells, irritated. _“I’m talking here?!”_

The music lowers, and Rachel says something she doesn’t quite hear. Then, Santana speaks again. _”It’s Brittany OK? She’s upset.”_

It’s said in the gentle voice she usually uses to talk to her, not other people. After that, the music cuts out completely. 

She doesn’t like what it means. 

_“Britt, you still there?”_ Santana asks carefully, sounding closer than before. 

“Yeah,” she whimpers, nodding even though Santana can’t see.

_“Good.”_ Santana puffs out a breath, clearly considering her words. _“First, never apologise for calling. Ever. Second, It’s OK to feel like that. I mean, it’s weird, being away from home for the first time, and everything came together so fast that you probably feel like your head’s spinning.”_

That’s an understatement. 

“I feel …I don’t know … you probably think I’m being a big baby.” 

_“Of course not,”_ Santana assures, gently. _“Remember when I first went to Louisville? I called you every day bawling my eyes out!”_

They both laugh lightly. It breaks the tension.

_“Don’t be so hard on yourself, OK? Everyone gets a little homesick.”_

Except, she’s not just homesick for a place, she’s homesick for a person too, but she can’t admit things like that anymore, so she just says “I miss you,” instead.

_“I miss you too.”_

Neither of them speaks for what feels like a long time, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just knowing Santana’s there and listening is making her feel better.

_“I think you’re being really brave to just pack up and go like you did.”_

“You do?” she asks, unable to hide her surprise. 

She doesn’t feel particularly good about any of this right now. 

_“Totally, I wouldn’t have gotten to New York without you giving me that last push. I wasn’t brave enough, but you’ve done it all by yourself, and that’s awesome.”_

She promised Santana she’d try, desperate to make her proud, but it’s nothing like she imagined. The people in her hall are nice enough, her professors are pretty much in awe of her, but she feels so incredibly out of place, like she doesn’t fit at all.

_“You just need time, B, that’s all. Once you settle into classes and campus and everything, people will see how amazing you are. How could they not love you?”_

As she listens to her talk, Brittany can’t help but smile, and she knows Santana is too.

“Today was just a bad day, that’s all.”

When Santana puts it like that, it makes a lot of sense. Who’s the genius again?

“I guess,” she admits, with a sigh. “It feels like everything wants something from me and I’m scared of letting people down,” she pauses, taking a breath to steady herself, feeling tears beginning to well up. “I don’t want to let you down again.”

The moment she’s said it, she regrets it. Santana’s told her thousands of times that it didn’t matter about failing, but it did matter. Failing ruined all the plans they’d had since junior year. Santana couldn’t live out their Louisville dream alone. 

_“Not possible, Britt. Ever.”_ Santana exclaims. _“You could never let me down! I’m so proud of you. I really am.”_

“Really?”

_“Really. Stop doubting yourself. You earned this.”_ Santana replies, voice starting to crack. _“I always knew you were a genius, and now everyone else does too.”_

They’re both laughing again, and she realises how much she’s missed hearing it. 

“I’m really glad I called,” she blurts out, and wishes she hadn’t. “I didn’t mean …” she tails off, knowing it’s not helping.

For a moment, all she can hear is Santana breathing. 

_No matter what happens, I’m always here for you. B. That’ll never change._

She’s still thinking about Santana’s words long after they’ve hung up and she’s huddled up in bed, watching _Bring it On_ for the millionth time, mouthing the words. It’s not quite the same without Santana there snuggle with, peck on the cheek or steal popcorn from, but it’s still good. That’s kind of what Santana was saying before, and it’s what she needs to try and remember now she’s in Boston. It’s different and it’s scary – really scary – but it could also be really good if she gives it a chance.


	18. If You Want Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set circa 4x15. Snowed in and lonely, Santana reflects on the real price of her unofficial break-up. An anonymous prompt inspired by Markéta Irglová and Glen Hansard song of the same name featured in the musical Once.

***

_When I get really lonely_   
_and the distance causes only silence_   
_I think of you smiling_   
_with pride in your eyes_

***

She told Brittany it’s not an official break-up, but it’s not an ordinary one, either. Every other time she’s called it quits with someone – no one’s ever dumped _her_ thank you very much – then that was it. Over. Finished. Done. Sometimes they’re friends and that’s cool, like with Puck or Dave. Sometimes they drift apart like her and Matt once he moved away. Sometimes, a clean break is best. It’s less messy that way.

This break-up is about as messy as it gets.

Things are different because they’re thousands of miles apart. Things are different because of the whole Sam thing – the less said about that, the better but the way he moved in just makes her angry – that makes this break-up feel rather more permanent than it did before. But, things are also the same in spite of everything, because Brittany is still the most-dialled number on her cell. Brittany is still the first and last person to text her every day. Brittany is still in her head, in her heart, under her skin. All. The. Damn. Time.

It’s painful. It’s confusing, beyond complicated, and she doesn’t know how to deal with it. Rachel and Kurt are going through similar stuff right now, both trying to move on with other people, but she can’t really talk about this to either of them or anyone really. They’re all wrapped up in their own lives now, even Quinn, who she barely speaks to these days. She’s not sure how much more she can take.

So, she’s left staring out the window at the falling snow, cooped up in the loft; lonely and miserable, growing more irritated with Rachel, Kurt and Adam by the second. If she doesn’t get out of this loft soon, she’s going to kill all of them and pin it on that weird dude who lives downstairs.

New York isn’t what she expected. None of this is really.

If Brittany were here, they’d at least be having fun. Snow Day are Brittany’s favourite.

Today, she’s missing her even more than usual.

They’d watch _The Goonies_ , and she’d let Tubbs sit on her lap and pet him a bit even though he scratches the shit out of her arms all the time. Instead, she had to endure Kurt having an emotional breakdown during _Moulin Rouge_ barely able to hide it. They’d make hot chocolate with marshmallows, and bake some brownies with Brittany’s mom’s recipe – they’re killer, even Rachel could eat them, since they’re vegan. She’d drag everyone outside to have a snowball fight or make snow angels, just because, and Brittany wouldn’t make fun of her for bitching about the cold. In fact, Brittany would take off her own coat and put it around her shoulders. Then, she’d kiss the tip of her nose while she rubbed at her arms to warm her up and she’d smile her beauty Brittany smile. She’d be so caught up in the moment that they’d kiss in the street, not caring who’s watching.

But that won’t happen, because she’s not here. Brittany’s not even hers anymore, and she’s only got herself to blame.


	19. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set around 2x14 (a.k.a my favourite episode  _ever_ ). The result of explosive chemistry and the effects of alcohol on Santana's weak resolve when faced with one Brittany S. Pierce in a confined space. Smut (with feelings!). Read responsibly! NSFW. Prompted by [frayedattheends](http://frayedattheends.tumblr.com). Inspired by the Bonnie McKee song of the same name.

***

_I see the danger that lies beyond your eyes_

***

When they dubbed this party of Rachel’s as a train wreck extravaganza, she didn’t think it would end up having such a literal meaning, But, that was before those hideous wine coolers; cup after cup of shitty beer; whatever disgusting concoction of liquor Sam mixed together in the name of experimentation; and the tequila shots. _Oh_ , the shots.

She’s had _way_ too much to drink, and her defences are down, so far down in fact, that she’s standing in the middle of Rachel Berry’s immaculate bathroom, leaning against the sink with Brittany right in front of her, temptingly close. Achingly close, and she can’t stop looking at her. That sinfully short skirt; her long, long legs; her glorious flat abs; and those perfect, perfect breasts, just spilling over the cups of her bra.

By comparison, Santana feels overdressed.

When she yelled out that she wanted her right in front of everyone, it wasn’t a lie. She’s spent the better half of the evening watching Brittany roll out her best stripper moves for Artie, still able to taste the salt, the lime and everything that’s her after those body shots, even though she’s been making out with Sam just to even the score. 

Once she closed her eyes, it didn’t matter. Sam could’ve been anyone. Sam could’ve been _her_. She’s getting used to playing pretend, but it’s hard when the real thing is right there within touching distance. She knew Brittany was following her as she stumbled up the stairs; she didn’t even question it when that following included coming inside the bathroom.

“Kiss me,” Brittany drawls, “I know you want to,” she continues, dipping her head to close the space between them even further. “You miss it, don’t you?” she coaxes, curling a lock of hair behind Santana’s ear, and she can’t look away.

She swallows hard, gripping the sink tightly, determined not to give in, but it’s difficult. It’s difficult because Brittany’s breath is hot on her neck and Brittany’s fingers are curling around the hem of her dress. Brittany’s right, she misses it so much. She misses her mouth, and her tongue and the way Brittany’s fingers curl just right inside of her, reaching where Sam – and every other boy she’s ever slept with – just can’t. 

Brittany’s ruined her in more ways than one.

“Britt, we shouldn’t,” she hears herself say, surprised and proud at once.

“You used to say that before,” Brittany notes, watching her intently. “But it always ends the same way.”

She puffs out a breath, and looks down at the tiles because Brittany isn’t wrong. She’s never wrong. What’s the harm? Practically everyone invited has kissed tonight, even Rachel and Blaine for God’s sake. The less said about when Brittany and Sam kissed during one particular spin of the bottle the better, but she’s never been simultaneously so turned on and so irrationally angry about anything in her life. 

Fuck it. 

All she does is look up at Brittany through her lashes and that’s it. Brittany grabs her face and they’re kissing. Her hands fly up into Brittany’s hair, desperate to hold on to something that belongs to her. It’s filthy and graceless, all teeth and tongue; everything they’ve both been craving, and she lets out an indecent moan as Brittany’s tongue curls into her open mouth. She’s desperate for more. As they twist and turn, the momentum pushes her back hard against the sink. There will be a bruise tomorrow, but she doesn’t much care, because Brittany’s leg is between both of hers, angling just so, and she’s shamelessly bucking against it, chasing friction. 

They break away at last, panting and breathless, but Brittany doesn’t move, only presses her leg upward more insistently, pushing up Santana’s dress with it. 

“Come for me baby,” Brittany whispers, fingertips hooking Santana’s underwear, tugging them halfway down her legs.

“Britt,” she says uselessly, around a shuddering breath. 

Her heart is beating wildly in her chest, and any second, they could get walked in on, but she lost the resolve to fight this long ago. If she ever had any at all. 

Without warning two of Brittany’s fingers slip inside her – easily, so, so easily – and she gasps at the unexpected contact, the sound echoing off the walls. It feels so good. Brittany is the only thing keeping her upright as those fingers work in and out, in and out. Santana clings on, desperate, nails biting into Brittany’s back, head resting against her shoulder to try and disguise a little of the noise. All that goes out the window the second Brittany’s fingers thrust with more purpose, and Santana throws her head back. Then, they’re kissing again, deep and slow this time. She comes quickly, with a short, sharp cry that Brittany swallows down eagerly.

They stand together, silent, and all she can hear is her unsteady, shallow breathing as Brittany presses light kisses to her face, easing her down with the same gentleness she always has. The moment Brittany’s not inside her anymore, it aches more than wanting her in the first place.

“You needed that,” Brittany declares, matter-of-fact, eyes bright, unashamedly licking her fingers clean. 

She couldn’t even speak if she tried. When Brittany kisses her again – a quick peck and a goodbye all at once – Santana can taste herself in amongst the tequila and lime. 

And just like that, Brittany walks out of the bathroom, door closing behind her with a neat click, and it’s all over. 

Letting out a long breath she didn’t know she was holding, she sags against the sink for a moment. That’s when the enormity of what they’ve just done – the guilt and the regret – settles in, heavy on her shoulders. Flustered, she pulls her underwear back up and fixes her dress; paranoid that someone will come bounding up the stairs any second, and there aren’t many innocent ways to explain this. No one’s _that_ dense. 

She spins around, surveying herself in the mirror. She looks a mess; her lipstick is smeared and her hair is mussed beyond all reason. Sam will be able to tell. Everyone will be able to tell what they’ve done, and no amount of primping will hide it.

There’s only one train wreck at this party, and it sure as _hell_ isn’t Rachel Berry.


	20. Let the Night Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set around 4x13. Brittany's perspective on Santana's return to Lima and the state of their relationship (or not relationship) at that time. Prompted by [cobaltsiren](http://cobaltsiren.tumblr.com). Inspired by the Au Revoir Simone song of the same name.

***

_Is it over?_   
_I'm still in love with you._   
_Can't help stand in your way._

***

She’s never felt this weird standing on Santana’s front steps before. For so many years, this has been her second home – she even has a key – but tonight, it feels like she’s trespassing. She didn’t even text. Santana could be busy or just not want to see her at all. They’re still speaking, but it’s weird. There’s this _barrier_ between them now, and it’s nothing to do with Santana being defensive and prickly like when they were younger. It’s something else. Something there’s no name for.

Standing here with a backpack full of DVDs, popcorn and candy feels presumptuous instead of the natural, long-held tradition it’s always been. Friday is date night. Saturday is movie night at Santana’s. Sunday is family night at her house, and Santana’s always invited.

At least, that’s how it used to be.

Santana’s going back to Louisville tomorrow, so this is the last chance they’ll get to talk before she’s gone again, back to her new life with her new friends and that Elaine girl.

But what do they even say anymore? Everything’s changed. They’ve changed.

She knows Santana. She knows her too well, and that’s what makes this so hard. Elaine is just a body. A placeholder. She doesn’t mean anything, not really, just like Matt, Puck, Sam, and Dave didn’t mean anything. It’s just Santana trying to score points and boost her ego; wanting to make herself look better in front of everyone, and show her that she’s moved on.

That’s what they’re meant to have done, but Brittany knows it’s not true. If it were true, she’d be with Sam right now. Sometimes, Sam is just a body to fill the space Santana used to occupy. Sometimes, he feels like a placeholder too.

Puffing out a breath, she presses the bell, just once, and takes a step back, checking her reflection in the dim glow of the porch lights. Her heart picks up and her palms are suddenly so sweaty she has to wipe them on her jeans. When she vague shape she can see in the frosted glass gets clearer, she holds her breath, preparing herself in case Santana’s not home. It’s too tall to be Maribel, so it might be Dr Lopez instead (he insisted a long time ago, she call him Andrade) and she’s _definitely_ not ready for that. He still kind of scares her, and she knows he only tolerates her for Santana’s sake, but now he doesn’t even have to do that if he doesn’t feel like it.

By the time the door actually opens, she’s hopping nervously from foot to foot, debating turning back and heading for home. Much to her relief, it’s not Dr Lopez; it’s Santana, barefoot in sweats and her old Cheerios hoodie.

“Movie night,” Santana smiles.

“You remembered!” she replies, hating how surprised she sounds. “It’s OK to be here, right?” she blurts out, scuffing the toe of her sneaker against the floor. “I know you’re busy and you probably need to pack and stuff, but –”

“Britt,” Santana cuts in. “Get in here!” she orders, reaching for her hand and pulling her inside the house. “Don’t be so silly!”

She blushes furiously, tacking behind Santana as they head for the living room. It takes her a long time to realise that they’re still holding hands. Neither of them lets go.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Santana says, softly, turning back to look at her. “Can’t break tradition can we, B?”

What Santana really means is ‘I missed you,’ and suddenly, it doesn’t feel so weird to be here anymore. It feels right, and good and perfect. For now, Louisville doesn’t matter, Sam doesn’t matter, and Elaine and the Library Girl don’t matter either. It’s just them together on their movie night. As long as it always feels this way, then maybe, one day, they can find their way back to each other.


End file.
